


The Tipping Point

by Dryad



Category: The X-Files
Genre: F/M, NC17, PTSD, Post-Existence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-31
Updated: 2012-12-31
Packaged: 2017-11-23 03:54:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,338
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/617801
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dryad/pseuds/Dryad
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Scully breaks.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Tipping Point

~*~

They didn't immediately have sex after his return from the   
dead. Nor during the remainder of Scully's pregnancy. Not even   
after William's traumatic birth. Too much had happened.

Billy Miles was sort of alive, again, Alex Krycek was mostly   
dead, again, and Skinner had turned into the good friend Mulder   
suspected he might always have been. Doggett and Reyes were alright   
investigators, but they weren't going to get as far as he and Scully.   
They didn't have that personal investment in the truth, the kind that   
bordered on obsession for so many different reasons. 

Plainly put, they weren't as good. 

He wondered how long it would be before the division was   
permanently shut down, and sometimes, he mourned.

Late one night, long past William's bedtime, he sat on the   
couch, legs akimbo and arms supporting his head, dressed in heather   
grey sweats and a ratty FBI Academy tee. The fire was burning down   
to coal and ash, but firelight still flickered over the living room,   
the coffee table, his favorite mug, stained from years, from pints   
and quarts and gallons of strong coffee. It was cream-colored, I Am   
The Man From Nantucket block-printed in lobster-red on the side.   
Hard to believe it had survived two summer's worth of ferry trips   
between Nantucket and the Vineyard, working his first summer job at   
Quahog's Clams 'N' Crabs, never mind the twenty odd years worth of   
moving since then. He doubted many mugs could say they taught scores   
of Englishmen how to pronounce quahog. Assuming a mug could talk.   
Nonetheless, he had been so very touched at still finding it on his   
desk. Scully's desk. Doggett's, not that it mattered, now.   
Movement from the hallway caught his eye, Scully gently closing   
the bedroom door. Mulder shook his head. Typical. Fluffy white   
bathrobe, shiny gunmetal gray satin pyjamas, slippers. "What are you   
doing up so late?"

She didn't answer, quietly moving to one end of the couch. She   
stood there, fingers plucking at the cord around her waist.

"You okay?" he asked. Her silences unnerved him these days.   
He would be attending to William, changing a diaper or helping him   
play with his wooden blocks, and he could feel the weight of her gaze   
upon them. She had a habit of sneaking up behind him, staring with   
an unreadable expression, much as she was doing now. It was   
difficult, relearning the quirks and foibles of the woman he once   
knew almost better than himself. Had he overstepped the boundaries,   
spending most of his free time in her apartment rather than his own,   
child minding duties aside? 

Abruptly uncomfortable under her scrutiny, he rose, grabbing   
his mug on the way to his feet. Scully threw one hand against his   
chest and he stopped. She did that funny little apologetic half-  
smile and chin wobble thing, the one which effectively reduced him to   
goo, then wrapped her arms around his waist, pushing her hands   
underneath his shirt. He returned her hug as best he could with his   
free arm.

She raked his back with her nails.

"Hey," he said with a delicious shiver. "I was about to bring   
this into the kitchen."

With another sad smile, she pulled away and removed the cup   
from his grasp, set it back down on the table. Grabbing the bottom   
of his tee, she shoved it up, practically forcing it over his head. 

Okay. Not a problem. 

Mulder understood the rest of the agenda when she started   
pushing his sweats over his hips. He wriggled a little and they fell   
around his ankles. 

They eventually wound up on the couch, Scully on top. Her   
touch was light, as if she expected him to disappear at any moment.   
He understood her fear, for he too was still adjusting to this new   
state of being. The changes his body had undergone were far more   
than skin deep, although the physical scars were long gone. The   
most fascinating aspect -- one which he was in no way about to discuss   
with Scully or any other doctor -- was the return of his libido. Not   
to pre-abduction levels, which he would have been more than happy   
with. To be blunt, he really had no desire to re-live puberty. He'd   
found a pimple on his neck the other morning, for godsakes! Then   
there were the frequent erections, often with no particular cause,   
god almighty, never mind the wet dreams and that ridiculous squeak   
that appeared in his voice every now and again. How was that even   
possible?

He hated the way it looked, but tucking his shirt in was no   
longer an option.

Having said that, however, there were benefits. Recovery took   
minutes, which he hoped would please Scully as much as it did   
himself. He was good to go at the drop of a hat. Best of all,   
experience and knowledge tempered what had occasionally become a   
hair-trigger performance, which should lead to enhanced enjoyment for   
the both of them, or so he figured they were about to find out.  
Scully sank down on him, her scant weight pleasant and   
familiar. It was almost unbelievable, watching her sway lazily to   
and fro. The light from the fire painted her creamy skin gold and   
red amber, her left side in smoke and darkness. One rosy nipple   
peeked into the light as she rocked, begging for his touch. He   
splayed one hand low on her belly. He was right there, inside of   
her, underneath his own palm. Here she had carried a child, their   
child, his son -- his son! Fading stretchmarks under his fingertips,   
proof of a miracle, proof that she was best loved of her God's   
children. Well, she wouldn't think so, but then she wasn't the   
heathen, was she?

Liquid splashed onto his forearm, his wrist. Mulder broke his   
fascination of her body to glance at her face. Fat tears slid down   
her cheeks, rolling from blue eyes he doubted had ever been so huge.   
Her weeping was silent, and she continued to move, albeit more   
slowly, until she stopped completely. For a few seconds he didn't   
know what to do, how to respond. Not many men would consider a naked   
woman crying in their lap erotic, and he was no exception, although   
he didn't soften. He sat up and held her close, then swung his legs   
over the edge of the couch. Keeping a tight hold on her back and   
waist, he pushed the coffee table out of the way with one foot, then   
slid to his knees, laying her down on the rug.

With perfect timing, a little wail came from the bedroom.   
Mulder glanced over his shoulder, listening intently for more   
whimpers. When none were forthcoming, he said, as if she didn't   
know, "He's just fussing."

This information brought a fresh flood of tears.

"Scully, I'm here," he said, caressing her neck. He kissed the   
corners of her mouth, the hollow of her throat, the space between her   
breasts. Her soft sobs quieted as he traveled, and when he used his   
fingers his lips his tongue, her breath began to hitch for an   
entirely different reason.

Stopping only when she was quivering with the desire for   
completion, he crawled back up her body and kissed her again,   
unmindful of her undulations, of her fingers digging into his ass.   
He slid home, swallowing her sudden exhalation. Propping himself up   
on one elbow. He reached between their bodies and touched where they   
were joined. "It's me."

He felt like he could last forever, so he took his time,   
watching her chest and face slowly flush. As sweat beaded her brow   
her eyes changed, still huge, still liquid, but their glitter   
softened until the woman gazing back at him was his old friend, his   
old partner. This woman he knew.

Scully gasped and blinked rapidly, and he was unexpectedly   
caught and swept under by the riptide of her pleasure.

He drowned.

Afterwards, when they had both caught their breath, she looked   
up at him in wonder and smiled sweetly. "Mulder."

"I'm here," he said.

 

**~*~**

**Author's Note:**

> Originally written in 2002.
> 
> "Quahog" is, in fact, pronounced 'CO-hog', and is the   
> king of bivalves
> 
> Polite version:
> 
> There once was a man from Nantucket  
> Who kept all his cash in a bucket  
> His daughter, named Nan,  
> Ran away with a man--  
> And, as for the bucket, Nantucket.
> 
> One of the many rude versions:
> 
> There once was a man from Nantucket  
> Whose cock was so long he could suck it.   
> He said, with a grin,   
> As he wiped off his chin,  
> "If my mouth were a cunt I would fuck it!"


End file.
